A Shade Of Gray
by Jenneh
Summary: FFIV; Plunged deep into a plot of death and dark magic not of her own making, the widowed Rosa Harvey loses the cliched damsel in distress role as she is forced to stand alone. (Reorganized, beta'd, and chapter 2 up)
1. Introduction

In decades past, it was considered a mark of prestige and wealth to be able to send one's gifted child here, to Mysidia, for training in magic. It was still perfectly acceptable, however, for the bulk of any given Kingdom's mages to have been taught at their own academies. Certainly today, this has since changed, with our much more extensive knowledge of all magic arts. It's not rare to see a new student standing frozen in the Great Library's entrance, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, in complete awe of it all. This shouldn't be mistaken for boasting, as Mysidia's library is the largest collection of books on the theories and practices of magic.

The greatest contribution of the modern thinking toward magic came from the most unlikely of places. After her death, the writings of Rosa Farrell Harvey, the forgotten widow of the famed paladin king, were found in her isolated home in Troia. She had put down to paper her knowledge of the white art, of which she was exceptionally skilled at. But most surprising was her extensive recording of a much darker subject: necromancy.

There are, of course, the typical speculations that she abandoned her training and oaths as a white mage, and turned to the evil art in her quest to revive her deceased husband. Made a widow so early on in their marriage, this rumor is easy to accept as truth, for most, with little need for further research. But records show that most that had known her as a young magess claim that her turning to necromancy is impossible, and simply out of the question.

I find it interesting, then, to look at the Magess Harvey's involvement in the second war of her generation. Very little is known about her place in the Crystal War, and even less about her actions in the unnamed war that followed. It is rumored, however, that during this second war she spent a significant amount of time behind enemy lines, presumably as a captive. Given the heavy influence of undead forces under the necromancer Marin's command, it leads me to believe that the majority of what she knew of necromancy came from this violent period in her life.

Overshadowing both her ideas of white mage and the undead, however, was the revolutionary theories she developed about the Crystals, and their interaction with our world. A new age of thinking was spawned from these, and consequently, a new era was ushered in.

It goes without saying that while Rosa Harvey's books might not fill our library walls, her ideas certainly do.

- Mage Sellinger, Mysidian White Order. 


	2. Chapter One

_Dear Rosa,_

_Your mother tells me that anything I give to her will eventually get to you. If you and she are willing to trust whatever network of people you've set up, then so am I. There's no need to tell you that if any of these letters surfaced, I'd be hung for treason, along with a dozen others. So take caution._

_I'm begging you, please, come back. I see so much pain in your mother's eyes, and every time they bring her to the castle, for questioning, she ages ten years. It nearly kills her, to have to bite her tongue whenever she hears harsh gossip of you -- and it nearly kills me, too._

_You have support here, little Rosa. There are those in the castle, those that sit on the council bench that know damn well you had nothing to do with Cecil's death. I know people that would support you, were you to return. It's not too late ... you could still reclaim the throne for yourself, and rule as queen. Find a child, young enough to be the right age, fair-haired, pale-eyed, and male. Bring him with you, claim the boy is Cecil's son, and you fled Baron not out of guilt, but to protect the unborn child growing within you. He would be raised as a prince, and you would have the throne until you passed it over to him._

_I know you hurt. But mourning Cecil from afar, allowing yourself to become a scapegoat ... it won't help anyone, least of all him. I'm begging you, come back. Have loyalty for your country, home, and come back to make a stand for what's rightfully yours._

_-Cid_

(Three years after the end of the Crystal War)

Generations ago, Mt. Ordeals had been a place of holy worship. Now, though Milon had been killed years before, by a man bent on redemption, the sacred mountain still felt the shuddering effects of the Earth Fiend's sacrilegious influence: a lumbering population of undead, unholy creatures.

Hardly fit for a typical traveler, it still serves as a standard training and testing ground for Mysidia's white mages. While the main purpose of the white art is to heal and support others, there comes strained moments of confrontation when either caught alone, off guard, or when all comrades have fallen, that a white mage must use strictly defensive magic to attack. And there are always moments when the steel of a blade or bite of black magic does nothing; Mt. Ordeals and its half living creatures is a prime example. Every white mage remembers time spent in this horrid place -- at least, I know I shall never forget.

I had my testing years before, so why bother coming back here to stir up ancient ghosts -- literally? Rumors of undead creatures roaming the forest that surrounded the base of the mountain were beginning to worry the Mysidian Elder. Especially because these particular zombies weren't the typical humanoid types that fiercely guarded their home, but rather, crude, half formed zombie creations of small animals. Rats, squirrels, birds, and even a young chocobo here and there.

Having a little experience on the mountain, a wealth of holy magic at my disposal, and a quiver full of fire arrows, the Elder claimed I was the perfect candidate to go investigate. He failed to mention my most important qualification for the job was that I was greatly indebted to him.  
Above all, no one would be too upset if I went missing.

The world was washed in white. Thick layers of wet snow blanketed the ground, swallowing the clawed feet of my chocobo with each unsure step he stumbled through. The whole of it should have been beautiful; an untouched, pristine winter scene, straight out of an artist's imagination. Instead, it only made me miserable and cold to look at it. The pathetic wark of the chocobo seemed to voice both our opinions.

No, that wasn't right. A second, distinct squeak of a sound came from around the next bend of the road. A warking, from another chocobo? There was a forest nest not so very far from here, so it was entirely possible that one might've strayed so far north. Strange, because the mountain tended to ward off most wildlife, but not impossible. My own bird shifted nervously beneath me, adding a hint of doubt to my reasoning. Something wasn't quite right.

The snow was nearly knee deep when I dismounted from the chocobo's back, and slid down to the ground. A tamed beast on loan from the Elder, so he didn't run off immediately when loose. Still, he warked in protest as I trudged onward, and I could almost hear his thoughts of, 'Why go looking for trouble'  
Bow in hand, and already pulling an arrow from the quiver on my back, neither of which had me prepared for what lay ahead. A slash of bright yellow, coupled around dark brown stood out in contrast against the snow. Squinting in confusion, I stepped closer, already lowering my bow. The yellow stirred, obviously hearing the crunch of footsteps, and a distinct feathered head lifted. The shape suddenly made sense: a young female chocobo, her heavy wing tossed over the unmoving lump curled against her side.

Something was still so very wrong with this. When I saw that the bird's beak was horrifically mangled, twisted to an awkward angle, I realized that she was dead. But still it moved, rising up out of the snow; her wingspread threatening, puffing feathers up to make her seem bigger, taller, and stronger. The sharp wark was a word of warning to me: stay away from what she had claimed as her nest, or be attacked.

I might've walked away then. However unusual a zombied chocobo happened to be, it wasn't any business of mine. I was here to scout out the area, and report back what I had found. It certainly wasn't my job to banish the unholy anymore -- I had long since given up the robes of a healer. I might've walked away, but any conscious decision could have made was gone when that lump behind the defensive chocobo suddenly moved, likely roused from sleep by all the noise. And what should have been a chocobo chick was in fact a boy. Ragged, filthy, shivering and his face fever bright.

I think my heart broke, that moment.

The mountain beckoned, a stark figure against the background, overshadowing all.

I must have gasped, or made some sound that the chocobo saw as a threat, because she came at me in a shrieking fury of claws and feathers, all loosely held together by a halfway rotted body. No chance to draw an arrow -- not that it would have done much good, at such a close range. I heard a distinct rip of cloth, as her beak tore through the front of my jacket. I don't remember chanting, or lowering my head to the movement of my hands. And I don't remember even having the concentration to cast, but the threads were in my hands in that next breath. Lashing out, and taking a hold of the tainted half-life in front of me.

She screamed, rotted muscle peeling away from fragile bone structure. The boy screamed too, likely startled by the display. The zombied bird collapsed into a pile of smoking carcass, and didn't move from that spot in the snow. The world became unnaturally silent, as his eyes met mine. He seemed startlingly older. I saw an old man, bent from his hard years, in that boy's face. I can't say why, but an unnatural fear bubbled up in me, and I must have look terrified. I swear I could see my own expression reflected on his calm, placid features.

No, this wasn't right. He was the child, and I was the old woman. The jump back to our proper roles happened with such an abrupt jolt that could almost tangibly felt. A mutual surprise was shared -- he looking just as startled as I felt. With another step forward on my part, he shied back, obviously torn between a growl to warn me off, and lifting an arm to cower beneath.

"Shh, there now." Everything that had happened, so far, in this soft, snow covered scene, had been wordless. Maybe that was why my voice felt raw and thick in my throat, now. "Not going to hurt you, promise." He said nothing, so I simply continued. "It's terribly cold out, don't you think? And it doesn't look like you've eaten in a bit. C'mon, now. It's not a very far trip, back to town, and then you could get warmed up and some hot food in your belly."

Skepticism touched his face, brow furrowing as he regarded me once more. Was this, perhaps, some sort of wild child that spoke no language other than that of the forest? Somehow, that didn't seem right. I swear, I could almost hear his thought process out loud. Was I lying, seconds away from attacking him once he let his guard down? Or was my promise of warmth and a meal genuine? And if I wasn't to be trusted, could he fight me off with those fever strained muscles of his? With the last being 'no', what choice did he have, really, when I settled my hands on his shoulders? He could have scratched, bitten, swung and hissed, but he only stood, quite unsteadily, with my help, and wobbled over to the anxiously waiting chocobo. I carried him more than anything else.

He was much taller than I thought. A head above my own. Thank the Crystals we hadn't far to go.

It was only with the support of a Float spell that I even managed to get him up onto the chocobo's back. I felt him tense, shuddering faintly, as the magic touched him. Perhaps it was instinctive -- had he been badly hurt by another's magic before? I could imagine a rowdy group of students coming across this poor boy while venturing the forest, and a particularly vicious black mage using him as target practice and amusement. It was enough to leave me angry for the trip back.

He sat in front of me, slumped back against my chest, nearly lifeless in the circle of my arms. I reached around him to grip the chocobo reins. The healer in me recognized his slipping in and out of consciousness, silent for the entire ride, while I simply fumed at a fictitious bully.


	3. Chapter Two

AN: There's no canon first name for the Elder, as far as I know, so I took liberties. If someone knows his 'real' name, don't hesitate to let me know.

_Dear Cid,_

_First, please forgive the tardiness of this letter. I've been told that Baron is carefully monitoring all imports and exports; especially letters that come in and out of the country. I imagine that despite my prompt reply, it's not likely that you'll get this in any sort of timely fashion. As for what they hope to accomplish by scrutinizing every scrap of paper that passes through their hands, I'll never know._

_Though I haven't met the young man in question, I do believe you're being far too harsh on your daughter's suitor. I'm sure he didn't mean to say that, especially at the dinner table. It sounds like you're exaggerating and perhaps overreacting a bit. The poor fellow was probably just nervous. You can cut quite the imposing figure, Cid, when you try. Give him another chance -- I'm sure she'll thank you for it._

_My niece, Penelope, is planning on staying through the colder months, and perhaps longer. She seems settled enough, though probably misses home. She wanted me to tell you that, as far as the chocobo you asked about, it apparently isn't going to lay any eggs. Infertile, it seems, sadly. And, concerning your suggestion that it sit another egg, it doesn't look like the bird will take to anything. Penelope suggests that you speak to a more experienced chocobo breeder if you're still interested in purchasing a bird with an impressive pedigree, as she's given up the business since moving to Mysidia._

_Thank you for asking about my mages. They're doing well. There's been some talk about expanding the schools, though we're still struggling to raise funds, first. There are still repairs to be done, as well. Palom and Porom are spending the winter in warmer climates, in Damcyan at King Gilbert's invitation. Despite their age, they're formidable mages, and I think it'd do well for Damcyan's trainees to learn from them, and vice versa.  
Send my best to you and yours._

_Sincerely,  
Lawrence_

Prior to the theft of the Water Crystal, Mysidia's Crystal Room and Tower of Wishes drew mages from all over the continent for worship. After the war, however, with all eight Crystals on a distant moon, traveling farther and farther away, there was no longer a symbol of faith for the believers. 

They still come to pray, sometimes, though few and far between. They walk through the Crystal Room, heads covered and eyes downcast, not daring to look at the empty fixture that once held a near-deity. Instead, they pass by, through the door to the tower. Choosing instead to offer prayers to the endlessly blue sky and rolling seas, through the open ceiling of their tower. A still standing tower -- something that couldn't be stolen away.

It made me angry, at first, to see the neglect in the Crystal Room. The tiled glass walls and ceilings, once cleaned daily to forever mirror the Crystal's beauty, now coated thick in dust and grime. I said as much, to the Elder, wondering aloud at how the Mysidians could so easily abandon their faith at the first sign of hardship. He said it wasn't a waver in belief, but rather, too painful to consider. Who really wants the task of caring for an empty shrine? The Crystals had let what happened, happen, and their leaving was in a sense a desertion. Soon, the people would understand. But for now, they needed to look to the skies, the stars, the distant planets for answers, not a bare chamber.

Little wonder, then, that I found myself alone, in the early hours where night blends into morning. Foolishly sentimental, I know, but it felt appropriate to come here to pray for the flickering life in my room. Having slipped into unconsciousness on the ride back to Mysidia, the boy hadn't woken yet. I don't know how long he was out there, in the frigid cold, but it must have been terribly long to have developed such a stubborn fever. There were few illnesses that healing magic couldn't touch, even if it was only to encourage the body's own defenses to fight. And this... I couldn't even figure out the source of his fever, much less how to cure it. If he lived throughout the night and following day, I'd be surprised. Relieved, certainly -- but surprised nevertheless.

I was similarly surprised, then, to hear footsteps at the entrance of the Crystal Room. Head still bent in prayer, I didn't bother looking up. Likely an early worshipper, on their way to the tower, and I simply didn't have the heart to make idle conversation.

"Rosa."

That is, until I heard them speak. I reacted without thinking -- stupid, I know -- and glanced over my shoulder. A familiar voice, certainly, as it was the Elder standing there, scowling in disapproval. He didn't need to, I already realized my mistake, and winced.

"You shouldn't call me that." I said as I stood, brushing off the dust gathered up on the front of my robes.

"And you," he replied, as he started across the room toward me and the dais, " ... shouldn't respond to it. What if a Baronian soldier had seen that? You're going to get yourself killed."

I had no response, and merely looked away, feeling very much like a sulking child.

He touched my elbow, guiding me away from the altar, "Never mind that. I need to speak to you." He glanced back toward the entrance, and frowned, "But not here," nodding toward the back, "in the tower. It's early yet, no one will be there."

Under other circumstances, I might've been concerned about the impropriety of such a private meeting -- after all, what would be said about the Elder speaking alone with a young white mage? The Elder accounted for that with the brilliance of his disguise for me. Here, in Mysidia, I was simply Penelope, his sister's daughter, who had come from Fabul to help her uncle with the reconstruction of Mysidia's schools. Never mind the fact that the Elder's sister had five boys, and no daughters. Being Penelope Floberge was considerably safe than Rosa Harvey, these days.

The tower was, as he said, empty at this dark morning hour, before even the early risers came to offer their prayers to absent Crystals.

"You were supposed to scout for zombies, not bring back stray children," despite his words, there was little in way of accusation in his voice.

"I was looking, but found him instead," still, I was a bit defensive, "Did you expect me to leave him there? In the middle of winter?" I knew the answer before it was even asked, but posed the rhetorical question, regardless. The Elder was far from heartless. The war had hardened him, forced him to be pragmatic, granted, but the man who had offered redemption to a Dark Knight wouldn't turn away a freezing child, either.

Logical or not, he simply nodded to the point. "There's no one that can spare the time to care for another child, Penelope, you have to know that."

"There doesn't have to be." I said, pulling myself to a taller stance with an indrawn breath, "If he manages to survive, I'll look after him." I couldn't be too optimistic about his chance of surviving.

His face suddenly shadowed with concern, looking far too serious, even for him, "I read Cid's letter, you couldn't possibly be considering. . ."

"To have him pose as Cecil's son and claim the Baronian throne for myself?" I finished for him. I should have been angry and appalled at the near-accusation, but I didn't have the energy to fuel such draining emotions. "No, Elder. The boy I found is far too old for that, even if I wanted to disgrace Cecil's line by lying about a son."

"What will you do with him, then?" he prompted, apparently more than eager to let the former subject drop. As was I.

"Do?" I echoed, then sighing. "Pray for his health, first. And if he lives? I don't know. Find out where he's from. Find his family and return him. They're likely worried sick."

"And the zombies?"

I hesitated with the question, unsure of how to reply.

"Rosa?" For some reason, the name stung when he said it.

"The rumors are true." I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but there it was. "I found one, when I came across the boy."

"And?" By his expression -- the furrow of his brow, he looked fairly annoyed with me. I hardly blamed him, though, doling out important information piece by piece, instead of all at once, all for the sake of being squeamish.

"A chocobo." My eyes closed against the memory of it. "She was ... well, he was huddled against her, the chocobo, I mean, for warmth I imagine. She attacked me, when I came close. By the looks of it, she was protecting him."

"Protecting him?" The Elder had never looked so surprised, "Did you ever stop to consider that he might've been the very one to raise the zombies?"

"That's absurd." I had thought of it, though, and dismissed the idea even as I said as much to him, "He's a child, not a necromancer."

"How old is he, Rosa?" He didn't give me time to reply, "A child, you say? Most undiscovered children come into power at the onset of puberty."

"But necromancy--" I started to protest.

"Is a rare, dangerous power, but acts as any other magic." There was a moment of tense silence, with me staring at my feet, and the Elder, I'm sure, boring holes into my forehead with a disapproving stare.

Finally, I managed a rather subdued retort, "It's not him. He looked as terrified as I was, if not more."

"Just..." he sighed, and rubbed at his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Just promise me that you'll let me know if you find out otherwise, hmm"  
It was an uneasy truce, but I smiled brightly for it. "I will."

--

There wasn't much to mark the passing of the next few days. The Elder tried to lure me out of my room with idle work, but finally gave up when he realized how distracted I truly was -- and utterly useless for even the simplest of tasks. Instead, he'd leave a bit of mending by my door in the morning, and return at night for what I managed to finish. This left me free to work quietly by the fire, to be close by if the boy ever did wake. 

I watched him, often, through the restless fits that seemed to nearly break through the barriers of sleep. He'd thrash against the blankets that covered him, face drawn tight in a strained expression that was far too old for such a young lad. After he subsided, dragged away from the waking world, I'd pull the blankets back up over him and wonder exactly when I grew so old to think someone his age so tragically young. He had the beginning promise of a man's height, but not the frame to match; at the lanky, awkward stage of growth that most boys encounter. Thirteen, fourteen? I couldn't guess, and didn't try, but I felt ancient all the same.

The only real event of note that occurred over those quiet days didn't really happen at all. Just a singularly vivid dream that captured me so entirely there was no possible way to forget it upon waking. I was falling from some unimaginable height, and Cecil caught my hands in his strong grip. I pleaded with him not to let me go, but my fingers slipped through his, and I spiraled down into oblivion. Oddly enough, my wrists ached upon waking, but I could only imagine the Elder's reaction if I had troubled him with foolishness from dreams. It faded quickly enough, and I dismissed it as coincidence.

Finally, one not so impressive morning of the fourth day, he woke up.


End file.
